


Life in Abeyance

by vegarin



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegarin/pseuds/vegarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As with everything in Iraq, this moment was also an exercise in tempering want and need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life in Abeyance

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the series. Some liberties have been taken with the timeline for a few side canonical events, post-series, but they're nothing major.  
> Disclaimer: This piece of fanfiction is based on HBO's fictionalized Generation Kill characters and has no bearing whatsoever on its real life counterparts.

"Time to get up, Sergeant."

Brad wakes to the familiar voice he hasn't heard for a long time.  When he opens his eyes, the sunlight is pricking through the beige curtains that cover one side of the window.  The light spills into the living room and onto the couch.

He swings his legs over the side of the couch.  The clock on the one corner of the wall tells him it's already ten in the morning, which means he's been out cold for seven straight hours.  Five days back in the States, and apparently his situational awareness has dropped to shit. 

In the sunlight, he can take in the surroundings better than he could the night before.  The apartment is an equal and rather odd mix of what one would expect from a college dorm room and a Marine's sleeping quarters: tiny and cramped, and what little cheap furniture it has is covered with books, but it is spotlessly clean, like an inspection is expected in any second - save for a couple of empty beer bottles on top of a dilapidated TV stand, which has books instead of a TV.

None of this is surprising, except maybe that Brad's former CO is dressed in jeans and a hoodie.

Nate is moving around the kitchen the size of a slit latrine, standing with his back to Brad.  Which means, for this moment at least, Brad can observe him without exercising any restraint.

Nate is still a constant amidst the unknowns.  His hair is not short enough to meet any military regs, but he still maintains the look of a studious kid brother just about to start out his first year in college rather than that of a former captain of Recon Marines.  He still carries himself exactingly, with that same seriousness in his face that he obviously hasn't been able to shed. 

Nate returns to the couch with two cups of coffee. 

His eyes are still the same, unobtrusively trenchant and gently incisive.

Brad cannot decide whether he is grateful or resentful of this fact.

"Didn't want to wake you."  Nate offers a cup to Brad.  "But we're expecting guests."

"You've gone civilian, sir," Brad says, after tasting the syrupy latte that wouldn't be out of place served in a fucking Starbucks by some fresh-eyed, wet-eared baristas. "This milky shit isn't real coffee, all due respect."

A grin curls up Nate's lips.  "Had I known a visit from the Iceman was being planned, I would have endeavored to procure the worst coffee known to men, but given how short the notice was, this was the best I could manage."

Brad grunts.  This coffee, he admits, isn't completely terrible.  Possibly because of the present company, but he isn't going to examine that thought any further.

They've never needed words between them.  Nate doesn't ask, and Brad doesn't need to offer any answers.  Why he is here.  Why now.  Why he felt the need to pack up and cross the country on his bike just to end up at Nate's doorstep in the middle of the night.  Nate opened the door, no questions asked.  He offered the pull-out couch, also no questions asked.  "As long as you need it," Nate said simply, "it's yours."

Brad has earned this much, from this man.  He would freely offer the same, if the chance ever came.  He should derive all the satisfaction he wants from this simple fact.

He can.  _Should_.

Sudden, loud footsteps from the corridor outside dent at their comfortable silence.

Brad raises an eyebrow.  "Guests, sir?"

"Called for a small reunion last night," Nate explains. "To keep you company when I have classes."

Brad doesn't have a chance for interrogatives.  The door to the apartment opens without a warning, and a man - no, two - bursts through, not so unlike a Jack in the box.

"LT, my man!"  Q-Tip whirls into the living room, each step practically bouncing off the floor.  He is followed by Doc Bryan, who saunters in looking both amused and irritated, likely due to the prolonged exposure to Stafford.  Having being on that end countless times with one Ray Person, Brad can sympathize. 

"Stafford."  Nate gets up to greet them, a smile hidden in his voice.  "Bryan."

Before anyone else can get in another word, Stafford corners Brad.  "Holy _shit_!  The rumors were true for once - the motherfucking Iceman himself, back on the soil of the United fucking States of America.  Yo, Gunnery Sergeant Colbert, did the Royal Marines teach you anything you didn't already know?"

Brad snorts and brings the coffee cup to his lips.  "Many, many things that'd make y'all cry like sissies."

Stafford is like an eager, and strangely languid, puppy.  "Oooh, I'd like to put _that_ to the test."

"And I'd like to get my security deposit back," Nate interrupts mildly.

"Aw, LT, so little trust."  Now Stafford looks like a kicked puppy, or is doing a pretty decent impression of one.  "Don't I always have your back?  Why would you hurt me with so little faith?"

"I may have every faith in you, but the couch has yet to recover from your last visit."

Brad looks at the grey couch in question.  It is indeed skewed sideways.  "Exactly how many times has _he_ come over, sir?" Brad demands.

Q-Tip puts an arm around Nate's shoulder and grins brightly at Brad.  "Why, Sergeant, jealous that I got to have our LT all by myself?"

Nate explains with a wry smile, "He's stationed at the Washington Yard now."  Which is practically within the walking distance from Nate's Georgetown campus.  Brad feels Nate's pain.  "And Bryan's now at Johns Hopkins."

"I heard," Brad says, turning to Doc Bryan who is standing back and watching them with a rather detached look of amusement.  "Going all Ivy League on us now, Doc?  Are _they_ teaching you anything you don't already know?"

"Well, what do you know, Brad.  Apparently one needs schooling to save lives, when killing them doesn't require shit."  Some things never change; Bryan still speaks in the same dry tone that brings back the memories of the arid desert air.  "And you?"

"On leave since five days ago."

"Right," Bryan says, suddenly sobering.  "I heard about the OCS instructor position at Quantico."

There is a brief silence.  Stafford is the first to break it, practically bouncing off the floor again, "Iceman at the OCS?  You shitting me?  _Seriously_?"

Brad consciously relaxes himself and unlocks his jaws.  "News here sure travels fucking fast."

Bryan is entirely unapologetic.  "You can level this entire fucking country, but the scuttlebutt will never fail to circulate."

Brad doesn't have to turn and look to know Nate is listening quietly.  "I'm considering it," Brad concedes finally.

Bryan knows not to ask any further, either.  "Where are you staying?"

"The LT's putting me up for a few days."

Bryan raises an eyebrow at Nate.  "You're still putting up with these miscreants?"

Brad snorts again and finishes his coffee.  "Speak for yourself, Doc."

"Me, I've got no choice, already indoctrinated by the fucking USMC.  Nate, on the other hand, still has a chance to get out relatively unspoiled and undamaged."

"Too late," Nate says, shaking his head seriously.  "Once a Marine, Robert."

"Fucked for life," Bryan agrees.

"Hoo-rah," Stafford echoes.

That apparently is a signal that general disarrays are about to ensue, which, Brad supposes, goes a long way to explain the current state of Nate's couch.  By the time Brad points out to Nate, "You have a class at eleven-hundred, sir," Stafford is rummaging through the fridge, which has obviously seen its heyday around the time of Woodstock, for the bottle of beer he's apparently hidden away a couple of weeks ago.  Doc has already secured his second bottle and is lounging at his corner of the couch.

"I should go," Nate says, getting up. "Be back in two hours."

With his backpack slung at the shoulder, Nate pauses at the door.

"Sir?" Brad asks, after he appropriates Stafford's beer and fends off Stafford's first counterattack.

"I just realized I don't want to come home to find you've ungraded all the electronics."  Nate turns to Stafford.  "And you, will you behave?"

"Don't worry, sir," Brad says cheerfully before Stafford can pipe in.  "Your pansy-ass furniture from IKEA is safe with us.  I can't guarantee, however, the safety of your shitty electronics."

"Ah," Nate says, thoughtfully.  "And I have no choice but to trust you with them?"

"Correct, sir."

"Well, then." A hint of a smile flickers across his eyes.  "What's mine is also yours."

Brad watches him leave and tosses down the rest of the beer in one swallow.

His throat is still dry with all the honest answers he cannot afford to give.

 

  
A couple of days into Brad's stay, Nate gives up trying to predict which electronic equipment will suddenly and wondrously work better by the time he gets home from class.

The first victim is Nate's stereo, which, admittedly, is rather old; it's served Nate all through his high school years, and the only reason it's accompanied him this far is because he's convinced himself he would throw it out once he's done with the fellowship for the summer, though frankly Nate doubts whether he could follow through that resolution.  Brad laments its pitiful state for perhaps ten minutes straight before he somehow tweaks it to receive radio signals from the other end of the continent.  Nate stops asking how-did-you altogether by the third day.

Brad's home improvement skills are surprisingly far-reaching and all-encompassing.  By the day four, Brad has fixed up an old grill that belongs to Nate's next door neighbor and fired up a BBQ.  When Nate returns home, Bryan, Stafford and Kocher are sprawled out at his backyard.

"Every goddamned day and night in the Humvee that we spent getting our asses shot at, all I wondered was if I could somehow get myself transferred to Bravo 2."  The talk, as always, returns to the clusterfucks that make up their tales in Iraq. "At least then I'd at least know my death wouldn't be for tragically fuck-up reasons like due to my own CO's incompetence."

"Fuckin' Captain America," Q-Tip agrees with Kocher, "always ruinin' for everybody, man."

Brad, predictably, grunts in lieu of a response.

Nate watches from the doorway, inexplicably frozen at the sight.  For the moment he's glad that they have yet to see him, though there is no reason why he should.  Their get-together is hardly new.  This isn't, shouldn't be, any different from every other weekend.

Except it is.

No one was particularly surprised to find out Nate had chosen to leave the Corps.  Schwetje's relief at the news was rather poorly-hidden, Patterson expressed his seemingly genuine regrets, and Dave offered an awkward goodbye that involved a hug neither of them needed nor wanted.

His men's reactions were tempered, even resigned, as if it had always been a foregone conclusion.  It hasn't been.  In the dreams he rarely remembers, Nate still sees some of the consequences of his own choice play out, as agonizingly and ineptly as performances in an amateur high school theater.

Brad Colbert is never in Nate's dreams. 

Somewhere on the road between Muwafaqiyah and A'Zaminyah, in the campaign that would not end, there was an ambush.  Nothing particularly memorable, not in any way an organized attack and not even led by the Fedayeen, but it had their Victors temporarily trapped between a berm and a ditch, and they faced the arties from RPGs just as they were setting up a defensive position.

Nate crouched behind his Victor, Mike at his side.  A few stray bullets skirted around the edges of his vision, and he saw Brad approach, with Espera and Ray trailing behind him, dogged and steady.

"Let's punch it," Nate ordered, "push your security out farther and box them in."

"Yes, sir."  Brad nodded at Espera, who signaled the team to disperse, and pushed forward to Lovell's team across the berm.  There was a slow moment between when Nate took a breath and when he turned his gaze to his platoon on the other side; his eyes caught a glint, a glimmering, over the horizon that had him yell out, "Get _down_!"

There was a quick discharge of blasts where Brad had been standing a fraction of a second ago, but between one breath and the next, Brad had easily rolled out of the way.  By the time smoke cleared, Brad and Espera had already crossed the road to safety, and Brad was talking to Lowell, not even sparing a backward glance.  But Ray - as Nate watched, Ray paused on his track and turned, his eyes landing on the scorched holes in the ground.  Ray looked up and met Nate's eyes.

There had been other close calls that cut even closer, even deeper, before that and more after.  Still, Nate felt the burn of chill that went down his chest, the cold emanating from the air surrounding his skin, at that mute fear in Ray's eyes.

Nate watches Brad now, standing behind the grill under the sun, intact and whole. 

The memory of that past moment still cuts into Nate like a frozen, pristine razor.

Brad Colbert is never in Nate's dreams because he doesn't need to be.

 

  
"It doesn't look good, does it."

"I've always suspected one's ability to come up with understatements is directly proportional to the hours spent at Ivy League institutions.  I'm overjoyed to have it confirmed true."

"I'm glad to have assisted in reaffirming your prejudice, Sergeant."

Brad looks up at Nate.  Nate doesn't smile, but there is no need: Brad can read the glint in his eyes better than his own.  They once again turn to stare at the laptop, which, to Brad, is an equivalent of a steaming heap of metal scraps.

" _This_ archaic piece of technology which must have a designated spot in a museum is what you've been using to finish your conference paper that you are to submit in two days, sir?"  Brad sits cross-legged on the floor and bangs on the laptop equipped with the processor that is outdated by three years, at least.  "This is what Ray would call a retardation of an absurdly retarded proportion."

From his seat on the couch, Nate looks over Brad's shoulder.  "I have to disagree.  I'm certain Corporal Person would have come up with something more colorful and descriptive.  Possibly," Nate adds after a short pause, "something that rhymes."

Brad keys in a few different codes and tries to recover the hard drive that seems to have been properly fried.  "I'm not poetic enough for you, is that it, sir?"

"I believe what I meant is you're losing your touch, Brad, if the point you're trying to make is I'm stirring up some good bullshit."

Brad attempts a couple of standard recovery codes, but neither yields any results.  He glares at the laptop; it sits in front of him, prim and unperturbed.   Really, Brad has dealt with worse tragedies.  He would not let this crappy gadget that Nate has obviously purchased from a place like _Best Buy_ defy him now.

"There's no need for all this," Nate says, apologetic. "There's a back-up copy, and I can use the library for the time being."

Classes, a part-time job, a volunteer position that he cannot cancel and being a one-man East Coast support group for the former Marines of the Bravo Company seem to run Nate into the ground every single day.  For most part Nate is successful in hiding it; it only shows in the tired line of his mouth, something Brad has learned to recognize one week into the Operation Iraqi Freedom.  Brad wants one less thing for Nate to be concerned about.  "You know me, sir - I don't ever fucking let go once I have my hands on something."

It doesn't take a second for Nate to read Brad's expression, either. "I know you don't," Nate murmurs and quietly gestures at the computer.  "All yours."

Brad sits on the floor and balances the laptop on the tea table along with a few pieces of equipment he's procured from places, determined to crack this shit or else.  Nate remains on the couch, armed with a stack of books, a pencil and a notepad. 

"A pencil, sir?"

"Maybe you've heard.  People have written without a keyboard before."

"God forbid."

Brad listens to the quiet whispers of pages turning and a pencil scribbling on paper while he works on the computer that had the staggering nerve to challenge him.

"There," Brad declares minutes, moments, possibly hours later, utterly triumphant.  He turns around.  "It's completely -"

He stops.  Nate is asleep.  He still has a pencil in his hand, a book unfolded on his lap.  His other hand is dropped to his side, just a few inches from Brad's shoulder. 

Brad's hand, on its own accord, reaches out.  His brain catches up with it just in time.

 _Fuck_.

This isn't, this can't -

He curls up his hands into fists and properly feels dents of fingernails on his palms.  Only after he unfucks the tumult of emotions in his chest, he lets his head fall on the couch and presses his arm on his forehead.

And he waits for Nate to wake up.

 

  
This isn't one of Nate's dreams:

They watched the sunrise over Baghdad on the roof of the cigarette factory.  The city was gently shimmering with amber glow, bringing light to the damages the darkness from the night before had brought.

Wright was rooted on spot by the sight.  Even his constant companions, his pencil and notebook, were momentarily forgotten.  Next to him, Brad sat on a wooden crate, servicing his M-4.  His helmet was gone, the flak vest loose and undone.  He wasn't watching the city, but the tight line of his mouth alone said all that needed to be said; Brad didn't have to be watching to know what he would see.

Nate, for his part, stood back by the staircase leading back to the factory, the rifle around his shoulder and the vest still heavily strapped around him.  He felt neither.  Nate could have, conceivably, stopped some of the devastation.  He could've had some of his men killed in the attempt to do so, but he might have been able to stop some of the houses from burning this morning.  He closed his eyes briefly and felt the warmth of the sunrays on his face, and opened his eyes again.  He couldn't unsee, even with the eyes closed.

"Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace," Wright said quietly.

Brad's hand over his rifle abruptly paused.  "You think that elusive peace will happen anytime in this millennium, Reporter?" 

Contempt in Brad's voice was blatant, but Wright didn't take offense.  He never seemed to.  The ability to observe without getting invested in the moment was one luxury that Nate couldn't even afford to envy.  "Someone, somewhere, at some point, might manage it," Wright said, in the tone that could be considered cheerful by some.  It was a rarity to hear it, here in the desert. "We none of us can predict the future."

"And you think _that_ " - Brad pointed at Wright's tiny notebook with the muzzle of his rifle - "will make a difference?"

Wright shrugged.  "It might.  We can't see it, not here, but it's up to _someone_.  Someones."

"Not us," Brad said cuttingly.

"No," Evan admitted, "not us.  But it will be someone's duty, making sure this, all of this, never happens again."

Nate tightened his grip on the rifle and tried hard not to think of what his duty may be, what he could and couldn't do.  He wanted to think he had at least earned this moment, and all Nate wanted from it was to be able to lean against the wall and rest his eyes on Brad.  Watch how the rising sun set his hair ablaze, turning that familiar shade of pale gold into a deep, dark hue of burnished copper.  Try to breathe again.

As with everything in Iraq, this moment was also an exercise in tempering want and need.

It was familiar and despairing, that this precious, inexplicable beauty came with a cost that Nate couldn't repay.  It was at once hypnotic and maddening, the knowledge that this was terminable, that he would never have this moment again. 

The radio fizzled into life.

 _\- Hitman Actual to Hitman Two. -_

Nate automatically clicked on the radio.  "This is Hitman Two Actual," Nate responded, hoping the static would mask that his voice was less than composed.

 _\- Uh, we need to confer.  At the Division in 20 mikes.  How copy? -_

He wanted to close his eyes again but couldn't, not when he could feel two sets of eyes watching him from across the roof.  "Solid copy," Nate said, "Will be there in 20."

He clicked off the radio and turned toward the exit, but Brad was already at his side, blocking his way.

"Interrogative, sir."

Nate had wished this was one of the moments when they could use silence instead of words, but no, obviously Brad wasn't going to have that.  Nate needed this conversation to end and end quickly.  "There's no problem, Brad."

"Of course, sir, I'm absolutely assured of it."

" _Brad_."

"Keep going, sir.  If you keep repeating it to yourself, maybe the truth will finally prevail." 

"Well, you never know, Sergeant.  Maybe today will be the day."

Brad shot him an incredulous look and shifted closer.  "All this time we've known each other, have I ever given you a mistaken impression that I believe in the system?"

"The uniform you're wearing says otherwise."

"Sir -"

"There's nothing for you to worry about," Nate said, as firmly as possible, before taking another step toward the staircase.

Brad made no move to step out of the way, which was a bad sign.  "If a few of the NCOs in the Company could speak up -"

Nate looked up sharply.  "This is the fucking end of that conversation.  Let it the fuck go, Brad."

Brad was looking back at him, anger more tempered and gauged now.  Brad always lived up to his namesake, calm and impassive and precise in crises, but more and more there was a precarious edge to his silence.  It was clear that this wore him down, just standing here, trying to talk sense into Nate, when knowing full well that Nate wouldn't, couldn't let him. 

Nate didn't want this for him.

"I know that - I know you deserve better," Nate said, grappling with wanting and knowing and lacking.  "All of you," he amended a second later, realizing his mistake.

The tempest in Brad's eyes was suddenly subdued.  "Sir, we don't deserve anything more than you're willing to give us every single day."

Brad, as always, stated completely devastating words without losing the casual calm.  Nate wanted to be able to borrow that strength, that implacable conviction Brad had, just a little, so it could sustain him when all else failed.

But it wasn't enough, what Nate could give.

Wright was watching them, eyes bouncing back and forth between Brad and Nate.  Apparently his journalistic sense told him this was an opportune moment to interrupt them, and it was the right moment for Nate, because he didn't know how to answer Brad.  "Is this about last night?" Evan asked.  "Refusing - uh, not sending in Bravo 2 into the city?   Will there be trouble?"

"No," Brad answered, his eyes still on Nate. "Well, at least our Lieutenant doesn't think so, but only because he's a lily-hearted pansy ass liberal hanging onto the system that continues to screw him over, much like a crackwhore hanging onto her last joint before she's thrown back into the pen."

Despite everything, a grin threatened to slip into Nate's face.  "I believe you've just made an unfair generalization in regards to unsuspecting crackwhores, Sergeant," Nate said seriously.

"That's true, sir," Brad said, just as seriously. "I'll make sure to convey my heart-felt apologies for this grieveous offense to the first crackwhore I see."

From the corner of his eye, Nate could see Wright twitching with the poorly-hidden glee to scribble all of this down, soon and fast.  Whenever Nate could spare a moment to think about it, which wasn't often, he was both sincerely afraid and perversely enthused about the prospect of reading Wright's articles.  Nate almost shook his head.  "Escort Reporter downstairs, Sergeant.  I'm going to see Hitman."

Brad's mouth was crooked with a smile. "Aye, aye, sir."

Before stepping into the stairway down to the factory, Nate paused to take a last sweeping look at the city.  Brad did the same. 

The city still burned. 

"I hope you're right, Reporter," Brad said, his eyes on the ravaged city in front of them.

Wright looked up from his notebook.  "What, Sergeant?"

"I don't want anyone else to have to see this, feel this, ever again.  Someday, someone might manage that."

Nate's grip on the rifle tightened again.  He tore his gaze away and turned his steps toward the exit.  Brad's words still echoed with each step he took.  He thought of duties. 

Nate had learned what this soul-shattering regret tasted like.  All he could do now was try not to let this come to pass again.

Maybe the choice had already been made.

There have been many reasons to leave the Corps, but that may have been one of the more important ones, that moment on the roof and the weight that he felt as he climbed down.

 

  
"Are you reading _Thucydides_?"

Nate quietly flips another page, neither confirming nor denying.

Brad grunts and re-adjusts a cylinder on his bike.  "You're such a geek, sir."

The half of Nate's face is hidden in the shade of his book, but Brad can still hear a smile in his voice, "Between two of us, I'm not the one who can recite every component of the original 1957 Harley-Davidson Sportster under one minute." 

"That only adds to my being an epitome of fucking cool, sir.  Voluntarily reading a piece of text written a millennium ago in a dead language, on the other hand, makes you a geek."  The last bolt rattles loose under Brad's fingertips.  "And also?  Pretty fucking gay."

The corner of Nate's mouth curls up.

There has been a time when that small glimpse of a smile was a dictating force on his life, along with loyalty to his men, and orders from his COs.  In that specific order. 

Old habits, Brad finds, do not die at all.

Nate's apartment doesn't have a garage worth a damn, but it's on the first floor and had a lawn the size of a palm in the backyard.  It's sheltered by a sparse growth of trees, and Nate had a couple of chairs and a half broken plastic table out in the shade.

Nate is on one of the chairs, reading.  Brad spreads out the gears for his bike on the sidewalk and steadily works at it until everything is carefully oiled and gleaming.

They celebrated the night before; Nate doesn't have any class left, his last paper for the semester submitted and over with.  Bryan and Kocher have gone back to their places but Stafford is still out cold on Nate's couch.  For now, all around them is quiet.  The sun is sizzling down on his back, and sweat trickles down his spine. 

To Brad, this is the last burn, the last taste of the summer, and there is a desire to prolong this moment.  Once the check-up is done he can pack up and leave any time.  The OCS wants an answer by the end of the week.  Or, he can be back with the Royal Marines in a week.

Or, in a month, he could be standing in the middle of another endless desert, awake and alive and dead, all over again.

He adjusts his grip on the wrench and reaches for the replacement bolt with the other hand.  It slips between his fingers and rolls onto the ground.

Nate gets off the chair, crosses the distance between them and picks it up.

"You don't ask any questions," Brad says, unthinkingly and without looking.  His hand tightens on the wrench.  It's too late to take the words back now. 

"I assumed you'd tell me your decision when you're ready."  Nate is at his side, holding out the bolt that Brad needs.  "Was I wrong?" Nate asks, eyes and voice both quiet. 

There can be no other answer.  "No," Brad says.

Nate hesitates for about a half a second before he places the bolt on Brad's hand.

For one breathtaking moment, there is this searing _want_.  Brad catches Nate's retreating hand.  "You have no idea," he says, roughly.  "You don't have any idea at all."

His thumb presses hard into the taut skin just above Nate's wrist.  The metal bolt is lodged between their hands.  Brad feels it digging into his palm. 

"Neither do you," Nate says, eyes calm and collected, yet his voice is just as rough, torn and frayed around its edges.

Nate doesn't pull away.

Now, this, this is so much worse.  Because it is one thing to want.  Simply wanting something may be forgiven.  But this is no longer just that simple, not anymore.

Fuck.  _Fuck_.

Brad drops the wrist and wordlessly picks up the bolt.  He turns to his bike again.

A long and silent moment later, Nate says, "That's your decision, then."  It is almost, but not quite, a question.

"Yes."  The answer is pried out from somewhere within Brad's chest. "For a myriad of reasons."

I'm not what I want for you, Brad doesn't say.  He doesn't say, You have things to do, to accomplish.  He doesn't say, You deserve better.

"Right," Nate says, his voice tight.  Brad turns to look at him, because he cannot stop himself in time.  There may have been more words spilling out, but Nate bites his lower lip and visibly clamps down in on himself before standing up again.  "A myriad of reasons."

Brad doesn't watch him walk away.

Moments later, Nate calls out from inside the apartment, "Beer, Brad?"  His voice is normal again.

"Sure," Brad answers.

This is a right thing to do.  For so many reasons.  But mostly, for one reason only.

Brad picks up and replaces the last bolt.  It clicks into place, and Brad tries to imagine himself on an endless highway leading back to the other side of the continent, where nothing can touch him again.

That evening, he packs up his things. 

 

  
Nate takes his time deciding between instant and ground coffee, oscillating between two brands that he has never tried before and reading every word on the labels.  It wouldn't be too much of a surprise if Brad's already left without a word.  It's almost expected, and Nate doesn't have that much faith in himself to hold himself in.

It's more than likely that Nate's being a coward.

It takes a second for him to drop them into the basket, and yet another second to move out of the aisle.  His attention is mostly on wrapping up the rest of the groceries and heading home as quickly as possible, so it takes another second for him to notice that Mrs. Kim is suddenly frozen behind the counter, eyes wide and terrified.

Nate catches a flash of silver in the corner of his eye and turns a little too late.  He barely catches the man's wrist before a knife almost runs him through, looks up just in time to see another man hurling in through the door with a hunting rifle.

 _\- Well, that was fucking unwise. -_

He hears Brad's dry voice in his head and has a less than two seconds to decide.  There are two, three other customers in the other aisle, and there's Mrs. Kim.  This can't be a planned robbery - he can smell alcohol in the man's breath as he grapples with the knife now in Nate's grip.  It's too late for cooperation or negotiation.  The rifle has to go first, but the second man's not within Nate's grasp.  Nate doesn't have to consciously recall any movement - his kick connects solidly with the man's kneecap behind him, and Nate pivots around to see where the muzzle of the rifle is pointing at.

All of this is an automatic, non-thinking process.

For one transient moment, he wonders why it is so much easier to put himself between the barrel of a gun and a crying woman than to risk uttering a few deceptively simple, previously unspoken words to someone who matters.

 

  
The call comes in just when Brad is about to launch a search party.  As he maneuvers his bike through Dupont Circle, for the first time he curses the fact that Nate doesn't live on campus.

The ER staff, obviously smart, naturally moves out of way when Brad storms into the entrance.  Nate is sitting at one of the gurneys at the far corner.  Two uniformed cops are with him.

"I'm fine," Nate declares preemptively as soon as Brad reaches his side.  "It was nothing serious."

Nate's shirt is torn at the sleeve.  There is a deep gash and a few trails of blood on his arm.  His face is pale.

Brad holds his helmet tighter and says nothing.  He hopes this may send Nate the message that Brad isn't buying into the bullshit Nate's selling.

Nate looks up calmly and doesn't elaborate.

"It could have been a lot more serious, yes," one of the cops tentatively agrees with Nate after a significant pause. "There was an attempted robbery at a grocery store."

Brad doesn't feel the necessity to suppress incredulity from his voice: "In Washington DC, within the five mile radius of the White House?"

The cop, who doesn't look old enough to be drinking in this state let alone handling a gun properly, shrugs. "It happens.  And your friend, thankfully, put a stop to them."

"Of course he did."

Brad can't tell exactly what his expression is like at the moment, but it's enough to prompt Nate to say quickly, "They were drunk and drugged out, mostly just armed with knives.  They did not pose a serious threat."

When Brad is about to ask how "drugged-out" and "armed with knives" can be used to describe a situation that does not pose a serious threat, the same cop adds helpfully, "They also had shotguns."

"They also had -" Brad refrains himself with effort and tries again, "There were shotguns involved."

It's possible, Brad thinks, that Nate is looking up rather sheepishly at him.

"And you -" Brad pauses again.  No, he will not get anywhere by asking Nate.  He turns to the cop instead.  "And _he_ got in the way?"

"Between the gun and the intended target, yes," the cop supplies, reading from the notebook. "And also between a knife and its unintended target.  And, consequently, saved the lives of two bystanders, possibly more."

Brad feels murderous.  He's certain he also looks it.  "Sir."

Nate blinks.  "I'm beginning to think ranks do indoctrinate people into their roles.  For a second there, you looked exactly like Gunny Wynn." 

Brad's been trained to regulate his breathing in times of crises and under emotional duress.  It's come in handy in more than one occasion.  "Maybe I should give him a call right now so we can hear what he has to say about this entire incident."

"I'm convinced I can distract Mike long enough to provide him with another reason to admonish me other than for this particular transgression.  I think the last time he suspected my daily vitamin intake was subpar."

Fortunately for Nate, this is when Doc Bryan marches in and makes his presence known.  Bryan walks straight up to the stretcher.  "What the _fuck_ happened?" he demands, no preambles. 

"You called in Bryan?" Nate looks at Brad, faintly accusatory. "There's no need, Robert.  Paramedics already -" He winces when Bryan presses on sharply at the side of his right arm.

Brad would be more sympathetic under other circumstances.  As it is, Brad forces himself take a step back because otherwise he may be tempted to throttle his former CO.  He's also interested in the names of these would-be armed robbers, but that can wait until later.

"Your arm's fractured," Bryan concludes and promptly gets a hold of a nurse who has the misfortune of walking by their side at that moment.  He barks orders for x-rays and a couple of other tests, and the way she snaps to attention might suggest that Bryan works here, which he doesn't.

Brad doesn't quite trust himself at this moment, so he waits on the sidelines until the cops finish taking Nate's statement and Bryan is finally somewhat satisfied with the test results.

"Hairline fracture," Bryan tells Brad after, looking over the x-ray result and the chart in a succession of quick, efficient movements.  "He'll be fine, but get him home and sit on him.  No more excitement for at least two weeks."

Brad doesn't need to be told twice.

He waits until the nurses release Nate and watches him collect his jacket.  Brad takes it from Nate's hand.  One of the sleeves has been rolled up to cover the torn edges and blood stains.  There is dried blood under Nate's fingernails. 

Two hours ago, Brad has been ready to hit the road.  He would have, had Nate returned home in time without playing a hero.

That near-miss brings cuts so deep in his chest that Brad cannot bring himself to let this go.

 

  
Nate stares at himself in the foggy mirror.  The side of his face is tender from a punch he took and has a bruise to show for it, but otherwise there's little pain.  He's also tired, but this doesn't even come within the shouting distance of the bone-crushing exhaustion he's already familiar with.

When Nate comes out of the bathroom, Brad is waiting for him in the corridor outside.

"I'm fine," Nate offers, unnecessarily.

In the dark, Brad is a mere shadow leaning against the other side of the wall.  Ghostly, even ephemeral.  It's a neat metaphor, maybe too much so.  "Maybe you should look at the mirror first before making such assurances." 

This has been expected, so it is not as difficult to muster up every ounce of patience Nate has left. "I already have, and I'm -"

"Is the quiet neighborhood finally getting to you, sir?" Brad cuts in, voice hard.  "Are you seriously jonesing for some action?  In the mood to court some danger?  If you're really all that feeling up for living dangerously for an hour, I can introduce you some other activities that might not get you _shot_ at."

It is considerably more difficult to suppress a surge of anger this time around, but Nate manages; he's had practice, and he knows why this exchange is taking place, and why they both should know better.  "I haven't suddenly become invalid since turning civilian, Brad.  And I'm not some fucking private and this isn't my very first time getting shot at."

"Not _here_!"  The wall rattles.  Nate can't see it clearly, but he knows there should be a dent on the drywall the size of Brad's fist.  "Not back home.  Not in the middle of a _fucking grocery shop_.  We're supposed to be safe, here.  _You_ are supposed to be safe.  Fuck, this isn't - this can't happen."

"You don't fucking get to tell me how this _feels_.  Whenever you are out there, I -" 

Nate stops himself.  Something has gone off inside him, a rubber band thinly stretching until it snaps, and it cannot be put together again.  Too many presumptions, to think he can manage this. 

As with everything that has to do with Iraq, before and after, as with everything that has to do with Brad, this moment is also an exercise in tempering want and need.

He feels Brad's eyes on him, suddenly quiet, and this time Nate does close his eyes.   Too close.  Too fucking close.  

"I'm being," Nate breathes in and straightens up, "I'm being selfish.  I can't ask you to.  I should - " He takes a step forward to go around Brad.

Brad's arm shoots out, trapping him against the wall.  Nate reflectively braces a palm against Brad's shoulder.

"Fuck it," Brad says savagely and presses his mouth onto Nate's.

It's not a particularly nice kiss; it's rough, all sharp teeth tugging at his lips and fingers digging into his jaws, and with absolutely no room for a breath, and then Nate doesn't get to _think_ anymore when Brad murmurs frantically into his mouth, "Nate.  Fuck.  _Nate_."

It's almost a punishment, breaking away from each other and returning to a calmer, harsher reality.  Brad's head rests on Nate's shoulder, his grip hotly imprinted on Nate's arm.  His breath is slow and trembling against Nate's bare throat. 

Thoughts are slow to come back.  Words, even slower.

"Fuck," a low, dark voice is wrung out of Brad, "you're bleeding again."

Nate hasn't felt it, but when he looks down at himself, his t-shirt sleeve is again stained with blood.  Brad lets his hand go, like he's burned from the touch.

Brad is pulling away, and all Nate can think about is why it is much easier to put himself between the barrel of a gun and a crying woman than to risk this, all of this.  He won't be a coward.  " _No_ ," Nate says and pulls Brad flush against him. 

Brad stops his stagger with his arms firmly planted on the wall behind Nate.  He looks wretched.  "I don't - I don't want this for you.  Why can't you - you deserve better than this." 

That's exactly what Nate has always wanted to tell Brad.  Nate has carried within himself every cadence of the words Brad has uttered under the desert sun, guarded them ferociously and zealously.  And he can say them now, almost freed from consequences because death itself has again breathed down so close. "I don't think I deserve anything more than you're willing to give."

Nate watches until the tempest in Brad's eyes calms down again.

"Okay," Brad says, after one long shaky breath.  "All right, fuck it," he says, this time softly, his fingers treading lightly on Nate's arm.  Then just as suddenly, Brad releases his grip and rubs a hand down on his face.  "No, no, _shit_ , we can't.  No excitement."

Nate takes a deep breath and asks, very slowly, "I am sorry?"

Brad runs a hand across his short hair.  "No excitement, Doc said, at least not until you are all better."

Nate considers it for a full second.  "You're fucking with me."

"No." Brad has the audacity to grin widely at him. "Well yes, that too, but no.  Doc will kill me, tear me from limb to limb, and you'll never find my body.  I assume you might have some use for it in the future."

"That's a good assumption."

"Two weeks, he said.  We wait two weeks, and then we're good to go, sir."

"Two _weeks_?  I -"  Exasperation is just about to brim over, but Nate pauses when the implication behinds the words becomes clear.  He searches Brad's eyes; there is no levity there, only resolve.  But Nate - he can't let him.  Brad is what he does, and teaching isn't what he is.  "If you're rescinding the decision because -"

"No."  Brad leans in precariously close until Nate can feel his breath on his skin.  "For all the selfish reasons, and nothing noble, no grand sacrifice.  You really have no idea.  You don't have any idea at all what I want to do to you."

"Neither do you," Nate points out, his breath caught somewhere in his chest.  The words echo from the memories.  They're still true.  Never been more true.

"And," Brad says, his voice and eyes dark and wild and calm, "I don't ever fucking let go."

It's a promise that sends a shiver down Nate's spine, that bellies the weight he felt in the backdrop of a particularly breathtaking sunrise over Baghdad.  Brad is never in his dreams, there're still fine cuts digging into his skin just at the very idea of losing him, and it shouldn't be this easy, never this easy. 

And yet maybe Nate still wants to believe that he's earned at least this. 

Maybe on this, he is allowed. 

Nate doesn't even get to say, "I know you don't," because Brad is pressing him against the wall with no regard for anything else, not anymore.

"Okay," Brad stares at Nate's lips and licks his own.  "So I think maybe we just won't tell Doc about this."

Nate's laughter is swallowed by another kiss.

 

  
"Un-fucking-believable," Brad utters at the state of the fridge.  There is a stale, a month-old block of cheese sitting alone at the top shelf, looking lonely and desolate, and everything else has been emptied out, like an extra strength vacuum cleaner has visited and left in a hurry.

Brad turns back to the living room.  The remnants of the fridge's content are sprawled all over between the current occupants of the space.  Stafford is still out cold on the grey couch, which now has the dubious honor of Q-Tip's longest running girlfriend.  Kocher and Doc Bryan have abandoned the couch and are on the floor, arguing something about the most recent invasion of Iraq.  Christeson is listening raptly on the side, but occasionally eyeing _American Chopper_ on TV.

The sliding door to the backyard is open, so Brad steals a half empty bottle of beer on the table next to Stafford's head and saunters outside.  Sleeping under the spring sunlight, with a book unfolded over his face, is Nate.

Brad sinks beside him.  The sun is warm on his face, and he closes his eyes.   For a long moment, he imagines himself back in the desert and back on the highway and can't quite complete the pictures, even when the stale air of the class rooms is still clinging onto every part of his skin that he wants to leave behind. 

"How were the newest and the brightest?" asks a voice tinged with sleep.

Brad swallows a mouthful of lukewarm beer.  "A truckload of fucking witless, gutless, clueless pussies."

"Oh, I have no doubt Gunny Colbert will make officers out of them yet." 

Nate's voice is a little more alert now, a little more awake, and with a hint of a smile.  Brad turns to look.  Thankfully, Nate hasn't been reading Thucydides, which is Nate's text of choice when he's having existential crises.  Sophocles, however, is almost as nearly as bad, and right now it's _Antigone_ , so that says it all.  "The class?" Brad asks casually.

Nate winces, which might have gone unnoticed if Brad hasn't been looking.  "Students are eager."

Which means the opposite.  Nate will be bored and frustrated out of his mind midway through the semester.  Brad has been thinking about this for a couple of weeks.  "You should go back to poli-sci," Brad throws it out there carefully and quickly, and has another sip of beer that tastes less all of a sudden. "Maybe consider that CNAS offer.  Change the world."

There's a long silence.  When he glances at Nate, thinking he's asleep again, Nate is staring up at him. 

That knowing look still has the power to lacerate Brad to his core.  Its fierceness still hurts and confounds and amazes him at the same time.

"I have no regrets," Nate says. "Not one."

No, neither does Brad.  It's never been a sacrifice.  Not when the life is now a series of these moments.

Nate's eyes search Brad's until Nate is apparently satisfied that Brad has unfucked himself. 

"Go back to sleep," Brad tells him.  "We can talk later."

Seconds, minutes, hours later, Nate is asleep again, his head on the grass, just a few inches from Brad's knees.   Brad curls up his hands into fists, not wanting to touch, just yet.  Some moments are worth savoring, no matter how common.

Brad tosses down the rest of the beer in one swallow.  His throat is dry with all the honest words he still cannot bring himself to say out loud, because they still cut so close.

But maybe tomorrow. 

They have time.

 

 **END**


End file.
